


Anthem for the Big Mistake

by Neelh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casual Sex, Depression, Drug Use, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Rule 63, Substance Abuse, autiejolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a teenage girl in your last year of high school. You are also a lesbian. One who just happens to be in love with the most unattainable girl in the school.</p><p>Your name is Grantaire.</p><p>This is your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anthem for the Big Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Enjolras is fifteen while Grantaire is sixteen, though it is left unmentioned, in case you are uncomfortable with it. The age of consent in the UK, where this is set, is sixteen.
> 
> Enjolras's birthday is in June, while, in reference to the six-year age gap between them in the Brick, Grantaire's is in December.
> 
> All consent is given enthusiastically.
> 
> My gorgeous and beautiful beta is [pyladeswild](http://pyladeswild.tumblr.com/), who encouraged me to write this. (<3<3<3)

You are a teenage girl in your last year of high school. You are also a lesbian. One who just happens to be in love with the most unattainable girl in the school.

Your interests include your art, books, Greek mythology, pretending to be a decent human being, your friends and said most unattainable girl in school, the latter two you pursue pretty much obsessively.

For your options, you took Art, History and Dance. You’re failing all of them, but none as badly as your Maths.

You think that Michael Gove is a fucking bastard. Whenever you voice this opinion, everyone nods and hums, agreeing, including the head of your school. It’s how you get people to like you.

You’re clinically depressed and have substance abuse problems. Your friends laugh with you when it’s alcohol, ask for some when it’s weed, but anything else and they’ll look at you, worried. That’s when you laugh, and say, “It’s not a big deal. It’ll help in the long run.”

Your name is Grantaire.

This is your life.

 

-

One

-

 

Medicine Through Time is an incredibly difficult topic, and one that makes you regret taking History. As soon as you finish Ancient Greece and stop bitching about Galen, everything is incredibly dull. It’s the only reason that you are creating a joint sketched comic with Feuilly, who sits right next to you at the back left table. She makes these lessons bearable. Well, her and the beautiful golden girl sitting at the central table. She is surrounded by other people; Cosette, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, to name a few.

“Pining over Enjolras again?”

Feuilly’s voice is a low chuckle, and you flush scarlet. “No!”

“Grantaire, do you need to be moved?” the teacher asks.

You avert your gaze to your A4 History book. “No, sir,” you say.

“Then stop talking,” he says before going back to the powerpoint.

You roll your eyes, but listen for the next few minutes. Then you get distracted, because February sun is spilling in through the window and making Enjolras’s hair fucking glow, as though she wasn’t already angelic enough with a halo made simply of hair. Oh no, she has to have one made out of light as well.

“You’re pining again,” Feuilly whispers.

You almost deck her in the face.

 

-

Two

-

 

You’re out of your meds and you can’t lift your head from the pillow. It’s a Monday, and you’re already running late. You grab the water bottle that doesn’t actually contain water next to your bed and open it with your teeth, before chugging down the liquid greedily. It gets you pleasantly buzzed and ready for another day.

Of course you’d forget something. Evidently, it’s your longer skirt and opaque tights. The only one not in the wash is clingy and short, and you are forced to wear it out of necessity over a pair of sheer black tights that only just disguise the ugly scars on your thighs that mostly resemble those of bald chickens. You make a mental note to google what bald chicken even look like. It would make your ass look fantastic if said ass was not attached to a pair of legs that would look less out of place on a turkey. You are going to get into trouble for breaking the school rules if not public indecency.

You pull your old green trenchcoat on over your uniform, which results in you looking a bit like a stripper or a prostitute or some other kind of sex worker when you button it up, and leave as quickly as possible, chewing gum instead of brushing your teeth for the fifth time in two weeks. Joly would have your head on a stake if you ever actually let her know. She gets pissed off about it for some reason. At those times, you tell her to look after Bossuet instead and her eyes widen comically and she scurries off to find the black girl.

It’s fucking freezing. You regret your life choices, then remember that it wasn’t a choice.

You get yelled at by the head of your house before you manage to slip away to registration which is on the second floor and therefore requires two flights of stairs to clamber up in your exhaustion, swinging your hips in order to tempt him with your public schoolgirl charm. You do, of course, fail. There is no such thing as public schoolgirl charm. You are also late for registration, but your form tutor lets you off when you explain to her the entire, frankly ridiculous story. You have an excellent form tutor. She likes Vikings. Vikings is fucking awesome.

You have History last lesson, which kind of sucks, in all honesty, because you have to work in pairs.

“Different pairs,” your History teachers says, “from your usual groups.”

You stare at him until he moves Feuilly away from you. You continue to stare until the person you stare at usually is moved right next to you.

 _Right, breathe, Grantaire_ , you think, making a valiant attempt to even out your breathing.

You forget to breathe.

Enjolras does most of the work, though you do provide some decent points and pick holes in the exam board’s curriculum. They are forcing your teacher to teach everyone in every History class that Asclepius, Panacea and Hygieia were the only Greek gods and goddesses of medicine and healing. You mutter to Enjolras about how wrong that is. Enjolras is surprisingly interested.

“We should make a petition about that,” she whispers to you. “They can’t give us incorrect information like that. School is supposed to prepare us for life.”

“I have a better idea,” you grin back, barely keeping your voice to a murmur. Enjolras is paying attention to you, and you are thriving.

Thriving enough to make a very bad mistake, apparently.

You stand up and use your chair to climb onto the table while flashing as few people as possible. Enjolras glances away and you realise that she’s seen your underpants. You hope you wore the pretty green ones.

“My friends in survival of this admittedly useless class,” you say loudly enough to get everyone else’s attention, who hadn’t already noticed you climb onto the table. “We are being misled by the very people who are meant to create a curriculum from which we must learn. We are told that Asclepius was the only one prayed to in times of need for heath, but we are not taught of any others.”

“Are you going to lecture us on Greek gods again?” Bahorel groaned, but she was grinning mischievously.

“No,” Grantaire replied, smirking.

Some boy cheered.

“There are goddesses too,” she finished. “For example, Artemis was a goddess of good health and fertility in addition to the hunt that she is known for. She was also believed to hold power over childbirth, like the goddess Eileithyia. Not to forget Iaso, the goddess of cures, remedies and modes of healing. Then we have Paean; physician of the gods. Over time, his name became used as an epithet of Apollo, the god of the sun and archery and music and poetry and prophecy and of course medicine, and an epithet of Asclepius, who we know as a god of medicine and healing. Aceso was the goddess of the healing of wounds and curing of illness, much like Asclepius. Finally, we have Aegle, whose name is pronounced like that of our dear L’aigle de Mots, Bossuet. Aegle was a goddess of good health, and glowing with such happiness and well-being. She, along with Iaso, Aceso, and of course Hygieia and Panacea were daughters of Asclepius, while his three sons were the famous healers, Machaon, Podaleirios and Telesphoros. The first two fought in the Trojan War, but Machaon was-“

You are struck out of your deep reviere by the door opening.

“Hi, Mr. Head.”

Your winning smile goes over the head of the Head.

“Come with me, Grantaire,” he growls.

You can either go quietly and diminish your punishment, or you can rebel against society to impress Enjolras. Undoubtedly, you will choose to go quietly and try to protect your grades.

You actually jump off the table and scream, “I don’t need your bullshit education!”

You damage the electronic whiteboard.

You are screwed.

However, when you leave, Enjolras catches your eye and smiles, before mouthing something that looks suspiciously like _I made notes_.

You smile stupidly until your parents come and pick you up.

 

-

Three

-

 

You spend the rest of the week in exclusion. Your parents pay no attention to you and let you do whatever you want, which apparently includes leaving the house with your fake ID that Montparnasse got for you after eating her out so well that she had about twelve orgasms.

You buy some booze, but don’t bother drinking it until Wednesday. Instead, you drop it off in your room and start walking around the bad end of town in an attempt to find anyone for a quick one midmorning stand in an alleyway and make sure that nobody notices that you usually walk near here in clothes that look suspiciously like a school uniform. However, today you are wearing a top that hopefully distracts from your stomach with your excellent tits, and jeans that are basically shapewear. Your shoes make you four inches taller than normal, so you could probably make eye contact with Enjolras while wearing them. You cut off that train of thought before you start thinking about Enjolras’s eyes anymore. You drink instead. You regret buying cake-flavoured vodka. It tastes like flavoured condoms. Not that you know what flavoured condoms taste like. You haven’t been into guys for about a year now, but any day soon and you’ll probably want a dick up your butt again. Or maybe a strap-on. Not all guys have dicks. Enjolras would be proud of you for remembering this. You regret thinking about Enjolras and sex at the same time.

You find Montparnasse, with her dyed black hair and her facial piercings and her drawn-on eyeliner. She’s wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a tank top that shows off her toned arms. Her normal cronies aren’t around her, and when you ask where they are, a shrug and words like _house arrest_ and _court_ and _idiots_ are thrown around.

You shrug and waggle your eyebrows at her while nodding to an alleyway. Someone who looks suspiciously like an undercover cop watches you both in a way that you’re sure he thinks is subtle, but you know that that alleyway leads to a door which is basically one of Montparnasse’s favourite hideout.

You’ve been in there twice. Once was the twelve-orgasm time, while the other was considerably less satisfying. However, this time, Montparnasse leans in and whispers in your ear, “I have a few toys I would like to try out.”

“Do I have a say in this?” you reply, cracking a grin.

Montparnasse raises her pencil eyebrow. “Of course. Consent is only unimportant when it comes to mugging and murder.”

You do not regret spending the day with Montparnasse and her smooth breasts and her leather gloves. It is very satisfying, and you hope that the fucked-out feeling is mutual. You might get a decent vibrator this time. You miss your old glittery purple one, and have been making do with an old electric toothbrush that was rescued from the bin, had the fuzzy teeth-cleaning bit replaced and was wiped down with one of your acne wipes. It sounds worse than it is, to be honest.

You miss school by Thursday, so you wait around where your friend group walks home, right on the corner, next to the traffic lights and one of the many car garages. Your city is basically Car City.

It appears that only Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel and Enjolras are walking home today. You will therefore end up walking with Enjolras for the entire way except for a couple of minutes where you will part at the corner shops and you will go to your council house while Enjolras will go to her parents’ detached four-bedroom luxury mansion.

“Grantaire!” Bossuet screams in joy, being the first to spot you. You wink and waggle a single eyebrow. Bossuet attempts to run across the road. Joly grabs the back of her blouse and doesn’t let go. The button pops out again, and Enjolras fetches it and narrowly avoids having her hand run over by a rather nice bus.

Who are you kidding. That bus is Satan. You will avenge Enjolras’s angelic palm by destroying the bus by glaring at it a bit. It turns a corner. You can no longer glare at the bus. You are incredibly disappointed that the bus remains trundling along, preventing cars from moving as it goes along at half the speed limit.

By this time, the pedestrian crossing has changed colour. Your more enthusiastic friends run across the road and cuddle the shit out of you. Enjolras doesn’t, but when everyone else has kept their distance, she holds your hand for a second and smiles.

You are even more in love than usual. You’re going to die because of Enjolras, and nobody will realise. Her red tie brings out the natural colour of her lips and you see her eyes blink at you calmly. She’s smiling slightly, and your heart skips several beats when you realise that she’s smiling at _you_.

See? You’re dead.

Wait, no, you’re not, Enjolras just let go of your hand. It’s pretty much the same thing.

“They’re leaving us behind,” she says, mock-grumpy. She strides after them, but glances over her shoulder to check that you’re with her. When you neglect to move your feet, she pauses and beckons. You follow, because you always do.

Your friends are discussing Flappy Birds vs. Angry Birds. Angry Birds is winning because Flappy Birds is - or was - an app, and Angry Birds _is_ a worldwide franchise. Enjolras looks mockingly enthusiastic and gives a bored cheer in the name of capitalism. You watch her mouth form the words and wonder what they would look like stretched out over a moan of your name. You lick your own lips and try and ignore the wetness between your legs that is definitely not piss.

Bossuet buys a chocolate bar that she shares out with everybody equally, then ends up with only the wrapper and a few chocolate crumbs. You give her your chunk of chocolate, which she stuffs into her mouth, chews quickly and swallows before it can escape her. She chokes and needs to be hit on the back by Joly before attempting to swallow it again. You feel lonely without your chocolate. Bahorel teases you with her own chocolate pieces. You resist the urge to kick her in the nuts.

You successfully suppress the urge of causing bodily harm to Bahorel by watching the movements of Enjolras’s arse as she walks, swinging her hips confidently and fiercely. Her thumb is hooked into the metal loop of her bag, keeping it from hitting her thigh repeatedly.

You are in love with every single thing she does.

 

-

Four

-

 

You are moved in your shared English class to sit next to her. Your teacher is wonderful and simply winks at you, not making a big deal out of the fact that you’ve missed several lessons. She knows that you love your current topic of poetry almost as much as Jehan does, and a lot more than Enjolras. She probably hopes that you can instil a love of literature that isn’t ancient philosophy or dystopian future novels for young adults featuring revolutions and queer themes into Enjolras. Speaking of which, the blonde is currently sucking on her own bottom lip as she flicks through her poetry anthology. All the pages are completely blank except for the poems that they had to study, which are annotated with so many colours that you get a headache from just looking at them.

When your poetry book is handed back to you, you look through the poems you missed. They have all been annotated by Enjolras, Jehan and Feuilly to within an inch of their printed lives. You chuckle at some of the puns they have put in. If there’s one thing all your friends can pull off well, it is the art of the written pun. You make a silent vow to yourself to keep that poetry book forever, even though you already did because it has your favourite poem in it. You wish you’d written it, in all honesty. Then you wouldn’t like it at all.

But you see Enjolras thumb straight to her favourite poem because the teacher hasn’t spoken to the class as a whole yet so Enjolras can probably fit in a quick read of _The Right Word_. It’s more of an intellectual poem than you like, but each to their own, you guess.

You watch Enjolras for a while until she looks up. You try to look busy with staring at the cover of your poetry anthology but you glance up out of the corner of your eye and Enjolras is smiling like an idiot at you. You wonder if she is slightly concussed.

“What?” she asks, offended, and you realise with mortification that you did, in fact, say that aloud. “I’m not.”

You shake your head, looking at your book. “No, don’t worry. It’s just you were smiling at me like… You didn’t mean to, so don’t you fret, mademoiselle Enjolras.”

“Doesn’t someone call Marius something like that?” Enjolras asks, and thank the lord for that topic change.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding distractedly. “Ép does.”

Your teacher begins to shout the register until everyone is quiet. You see Enjolras begin to curl away into her chair and put her fingers in her ears, and you instinctively put an arm around her. She makes a quiet squealing noise and pulls away before wrapping her coat around her shoulders.

Shit.

You’ve upset Enjolras.

Well fucking done, Grantaire.

Can you tell that you’re being sarcastic? Well, you sure can.

That sentence would probably be easier to understand if you were high off your ass or fucking hammered, but you are neither, so you flop your face into your hands.

Eventually, the register is over, and Enjolras slowly emerges from her coat-shell like a particularly stunning tortoise. She hunches over her poetry anthology and unenthusiastically takes notes on the poem.

“Why can’t we do poems on lesbians?” she mutters to herself, squishing her face with her left hand as she writes with her right.

Why is she so adorable.

It’s not even a question.

“Maybe I could recite a poem to you,” you smirk in her ear before you get the chance to think about it.

She looks up and smiles at you. “Maybe you could.”

“Or maybe I won’t,” you say quickly, turning your head to hide your blush.

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let her know, or something like that. You were drunk for the group outing to see Frozen. Thankfully, you have sworn to yourself that you won’t be for The Lego Movie, because that shit is kind of fucking great.

You still feel her staring at you and look up with a raised eyebrow. She looks away, this time. You don’t blame her. Your face kind of looks like a lump of vomit you saw on the floor one time.

You have to annotate _Flag_ today before comparing it to _The Right Word_. Enjolras looks ecstatic as she discusses it animatedly with you, pointing out the imagery and enthusing about the rhymes and how the pattern changes in order to emphasise the last stanza.

How anyone can say that she’s not passionate about poetry is beyond you.

You somehow survive a day with no more Enjolras except in PE, where you always choose the class she’s in, no matter if you can play the sport or not.

Right now it is badminton, and you are playing with her against Combeferre and Éponine, since Marius dragged Courfeyrac with him to play against Cosette and Jehan.

Éponine is waggling her eyebrows at you and Enjolras is probably confused, but she’s standing a few feet in front of you because she’s playing closer to the net. You’re just the backup plan in case she misses, though you’ll be watching her delicious arse in that fucking navy skirt. Enjolras is probably one of the few girls who looks attractive in the school PE kit, while you are one of the few who looks exceptionally horrid.

That’s it. You’re quitting existence. Again.

You keep on missing because you’re watching the graceful movements of Enjolras’s body. She’s like a swan about to take flight in the most romanticised way possible. She’d make a wonderful Odette, you decide, despite the fact that your only knowledge of Swan Lake comes from the Barbie movie and not the ballet. And either way, Enjolras is probably not a ballerina.

“Are you a ballerina?” you ask.

Enjolras stares at you as though you’ve gone mad. “I wanted to,” she says slowly, “but I didn’t have the drive for it compared to my need for social reform. I still take lessons though. How could you tell?”

You shrug.

Éponine looks slightly pissed off. You have probably underestimated how badly, though, when she yells, “Fucking hell, Enjolras, give me your cock!”

Enjolras flushes scarlet.

You have a sudden mental image that makes standing suddenly very, very difficult, and you are extremely thankful for your status as a cisgender girl.

Combeferre just _smirks_.

 _Fuck you!_ you mouth to them exaggeratedly. Combeferre’s smirk just grows wider.

You are disappointed in everything, but that’s nothing new.

When you have to get changed after PE, you find yourself stealing glances at Enjolras and her perfect goddamn tits. Even when Éponine strips naked and starts strutting through the changing room. Even the straight people are (probably) attracted to her. You don’t blame them.

 

-

Five

-

 

You feel sick.

You are sitting next to Enjolras on a beautiful early spring day, and you feel sick.

You were both watching your friends mess around and somehow turn everything into a massive game of Walk Like A Crab when you suddenly feel woozy.

Joly immediately notices and rushes over to you. “Where does it hurt? Do you feel faint? How many people with penises have you slept with in the past couple of months? Are you pregnant, Grantaire? Are you pregnant?”

You shake your head, which makes you feel even more ill. “Head and stomach, yes, one but there was a condom, and fuck no. Joly, I’ve only just come off the pill.”

“Way too much information,” Feuilly says, peering down at you. She is ridiculously tall and it irritates you beyond belief.

“Do you think you should go to Matron?” Bossuet asks.

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Joly says, grabbing your arm and yanking you up. You stagger against her and almost fall backwards into Enjolras’s lap. The blonde has apparently stood up and is supporting you on your other side.

There might be innuendo in that sentence. Somewhere. Somehow.

You are almost dragged to Matron’s office with your entourage of Enjolras, Joly and Bahorel. Bahorel’s only there to stop people from staring at you for too long. Nobody fucks with Bahorel.

Except for that one blonde girl, but that’s hardy considered ‘fucking’. Apparently she has the same neurology as Enjolras, so they were often grouped together before moving to different classes. Enjolras waves to her and explains why they are practically carrying you to Matron. She mentions that Matron only just got back and is probably in the other block, where your group has just left. She then goes with a self-deprecating comment and persuades Matron to go and look after you in her office.

You probably owe her.

Your mother is called to take you home before the end of lunch; Bahorel carries you to the car as Enjolras and Joly were forced apart from you. It was really tragic. Joly asked you to metaphorically hit her up on Facebook, while Enjolras _actually_ asked for you to _call her_.

It is so teen-chick-flick you feel like you’re going to die of embarrassment. Or happiness. You fucking love chick flicks. You resolve to ask Enjolras over to your house to watch _Aquamarine_.

Either way, you end up going home and cuddling a bucket instead of a certain adorable blonde.

You still watch _Aquamarine_.

You also miss your friends and miss your bloody _schoolwork_ of all things.

Then again, maybe _hope your father doesn’t notice that you’ve missed Maths_ doesn’t count as missing school.

-

Six

-

Your father notices.

You leave the house with makeup caked on for school the next day. You have Maths so you can’t be off again. You catch up with Joly and Bossuet and walk with them, where they thankfully don’t ask any questions. It’s in their eyes. Probably. Eyes don’t actually give anything away as to emotions. You know that pupils often get bigger when it’s dark or if someone sees something they like, and smaller if it’s light or someone sees something they don’t like.

You wouldn’t know. Your pupils always get smaller whenever you look in the mirror, though, so there may be some stock in that thought.

You make a mental note to ask Combeferre about it. Maybe she can look it up in that massive library she works in at the weekend.

You have two lessons with no friends in the class, both of which you have before break. You somehow survive the screeching kids in the rooms and the jostling in the corridors and the _"You look even worse than usual!"s_ until break, where you practically run to your friends’ normal spot.

They arrive after what felt like hours of shifting from foot to foot, where you collapse onto the shoulder of the nearest person, who is thankfully Bahorel. So the height difference means that you’re on her nipple. Great.

You make yourself comfortable on her itty bitty titty and try to fall asleep. Instead, Bahorel lifts you up so that she’s cradling you in her arms. It feels nice, so you don’t protest.

“Is she okay?” someone who sounds like Joly says.

You raise an eyebrow with your eyes still shut. Bahorel laughs before deadpanning, “No.”

Soon, a coat is placed around you. It smells like cigarettes and oil paints and it is therefore most likely Feuilly’s. You snuggle inside it and genuinely fall asleep.

You awake to the feeling of more coats and bags under your butt, your head in someone’s lap and rain falling onto your face. You squeal when you feel the makeup running off, though only the person with your head in their lap notices.

Of course it’s going to be Enjolras.

She wipes the remnants off with her thumb and you forget how to breathe momentarily. It takes you until you start breathing again for you to realise that she did as well, though probably because she just discovered the killer bruise on your face.

“Come with me,” she says quietly, picking up her bag. “I’ll cover that up better than you did.”

You leave the coats in the little pile on the bench you found yourself on, but Enjolras takes her red duffle coat and manages to fit you both inside of it. She walks you to a place out of sight from everyone, it’s where you did long jump in PE last year. There, she leaves the coat to be filled exclusively by you and pulls some makeup from out of her bag.

“It’s a little pale for you, but it’ll cover up the bruises,” she says gently.

You wonder how the fuck you managed to make such brilliant, beautiful friends, and wish you hadn’t fallen in love with the most brilliant and beautiful of them all.

She gently brushes the makeup over your cheeks and forehead and turns your head by shifting your chin with her fingers. When she is finished, she puts the makeup back in her bag and leaves it on the floor. She returns to holding your jaw in her hands. The curve of her soft palms and calloused fingers from writing essays feels absolutely perfect against your skin. And you might be about to faint. Or throw up. You hope you don’t. You’re not sure why, but that might be a pretty bad thing to on to the girl you’ve had a crush the size of Saturn on since forever.

“What are you doing?” you manage to rasp out. Shit, you sound awful. You swallow your saliva in an attempt to sound like a human being.

“I… Well…” mumbles Enjolras, sounding like a politician being called out on their shitty ideas. “I was trying to tell you that I think I like you. As more than a friend.”

Definitely a shitty idea.

You turn a vague shade of greyish green and run to the toilets.

You don’t throw up, but you do have a slight panic attack.

Okay, a very bad panic attack.

“Honey, are you okay?”

Literally one person calls you that.

“Jehan?” you ask quietly.

The girl kneels down next to where you are slouched over the toilet seat.

“The bell went ten minutes ago, Grantaire,” she tells you softly. “Everyone’s worried about you. Especially Enjolras. What is it with you two, anyway? Are you dating or something?”

You genuinely vomit this time.

After, you dab around your mouth with tissue in order to smudge your makeup as little as possible.

“She said she liked me as more than a friend,” you mumble. It goes unsaid that you didn’t believe her, but when Jehan looks into your eyes, she probably understands because Jehan is basically an eye-whisperer. She looks into your eyes and can probably see your life story in one of the little pink veins.

“And you ran?”

You nod. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? She’s making a mistake, anyway.”

Jehan scowls at you. “You are _not_ a mistake, Grantaire. And if she decides that she doesn’t really want you, then she has all of us to answer to. But you _know_ that Enjolras doesn’t do anything she isn’t sure about. She’d rather die than lie to any of us, even unintentionally. Why do you think she had such a breakdown when you pointed out all of the facts she had wrong in her speech for our speaking assessment?”

You smile shyly at that. “I suppose you’re right,” you say.

Jehan pulls a pack of gum out of her skirt pocket and pops one in your mouth. “Now chew that for a bit, then get rid of it and we can go back to form.

Ten minutes later, the remnants of the gum have been mummified in toilet paper and disposed of down the sanitary waste bin, which had a used pad stuck to it. Jehan mimed vomiting until you glared at her.

“Anyway, we have French next. Come on!”

You are late to French, but your teacher just sighs, sends you both to the attendance office and lets you both continue with the work that Enjolras has told you about.

The three of you sit together on a table, with Jehan on the furthest left next to a boy that doesn’t talk to anyone, you in the middle and Enjolras closest to the middle of the room. It’s pretty awkward, because Enjolras keeps on looking at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

Little does she know, you’re always looking. Fuck, that sounded creepy. And you weren’t looking when you were asleep in her lap!

You are currently digging your own grave.

This causes you to hit your head on the table.

Which was, in hindsight, a stupid idea.

“Grantaire, if you could _please_ do your work.”

You write gibberish in French and continue gazing at Enjolras’s locks of spun gold.

Well. That was the shittiest cliché you have come up with for a while.

 

-

Seven

-

 

You wait until the end of the day to talk to Enjolras. Your friends are all enthusing about the French trip to Paris that you’re all going on because it is apparently mandatory.

You’re going to Disneyland for school.

Holy fucking shit.

You have the letter clutched in your fist and your life savings in our bank account because your parents are probably only going to pay half of the hundred and fifty quid fee. Which is less than everyone else has to pay, but the school offers financial help to _students with less income in their household_ and they have you around the top of their list.

When everyone but Enjolras and you have gone their separate ways in order to get home, you pull Enjolras aside into an alleyway. It’s slightly damp and smells a little bit of spunk and pee, but you don’t notice that as you stand incredibly close to Enjolras. You can smell her coconut shampoo and tea tree conditioner and lemon soap. Her blue eyes are as wide as saucers and her rosy lips parted.

“Can I?” you whisper, leaning in so that you are breathing the same air.

In reply, Enjolras surges down and kisses you.

She is so very inexperienced, and it shows, but her fingers are tangled in your messy hair and not letting you move away except in short gasps for air before your lips meet again. This time, she begins to lick at your lower lip before taking it in her mouth and nipping at it gently. You groan, and her tongue slips inside your mouth.

And stays there.

You have no idea what to do.

You remain like that for a minute, before you both break apart. Enjolras is beetroot red; her cheeks almost defeating her lips in redness.

“I have no idea how to kiss with tongue,” she says.

You shrug. “Neither do I.”

“I’ll look it up tonight.” She takes your hand and leads you out of the alley.

“So, are we a thing?” you ask nervously, letting her thread her fingers between your own.

She looks up at you with a cheeky grin. “Darling, we’re everything.”

You splutter with a huge grin. “Did you just-“

“ _Rent_ ,” Enjolras nodded, smiling back at you. “It was part of the huge sleepover that Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Cosette, and Éponine held at Courf’s place. We basically stayed up from Friday to Sunday and they made me watch movies and play Truth or Dare until I realised that I was in love with you.” She paused for a moment. “That was during Hercules, though.”

You’re laughing silently now, clutching your stomach as it fills and empties itself of air. “Don’t tell me-“

“It was just before _I Won’t Say_ , ‘Taire,” pouts Enjolras, hiding her grin. “Courfeyrac won’t let it go.”

This causes you to start humming _Let It Go_ like one of those scene people who want to be seen as special and random and weird, which inadvertently causes a duet between the pair of you.

Enjolras is unsurprisingly good at singing, though her style is evidently more classical.

You have to go down into octaves never before reached except by the greatest bass singers in order to carry the tune without mangling it _too_ badly.

When you part ways at the bottom of the hill, Enjolras kisses your lips chastely and squeezes your hand before crossing the road.

You’re so surprised, you almost miss the venerating way she looks at you.

 

-

Huit

-

 

You’re staying in more of a caravan site than a hotel while in Paris. Your caravan has five beds but is made for six people. Therefore, you were placed in the double bed with Enjolras, which you deemed an excellent decision.

You do not try to promise yourself that you will not have sex with her. The only thing that could stop you would be her not giving her consent. However, she has expressed an interest in the possibility of The Do-doing. _The Do_ meaning sex.

The other people in your caravan - Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Éponine and Cosette - are sharing twin rooms. You are proud of yourself for leaping onto the double bed and screaming “Bagsy!” before unpacking rapidly.

You’re in Paris for a week. You need to be comfortable!

There’s another caravan almost identical to yours opposite the dirt track. This one houses Feuilly, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel. The teachers weren’t sure where to put the latter girl, before Jehan argued vehemently that as the gender on her passport was _female_ , then she should share with girls. However, she is left on the sofa bed officially, but is unofficially in the double bed with Feuilly and Jehan. It would be a tight squeeze if Jehan wasn’t so tiny and Feuilly so skinny. They will apparently take it in turns to use Bahorel as a big muscly pillow.

But tonight, you just got back from seeing Notre Dame and eating a picnic dinner everyone helped to choose from a small budget at a market. You are curled up with Enjolras. Your legs are entangled and you cannot believe how ridiculously smooth her calves are when compared to your stubbly legs. Her nightie rides up around her waist, while you wear yellow-checked pyjama shorts and a matching top that you got from Matalan about three years ago, in a size too big for you back then.

The others are still taking it in turns to shower, while Enjolras managed to get in first before wrapping her towel around her body and throwing another at you. You had caught it and sprinted into the bathroom a moment later as you pulled off your shirt and left a trail of clothing leading to the bathroom. When you had returned, you found that Enjolras had picked it all up and folded it away in your room’s cupboard.

The sun has set in the perfect sky and you are both curled up next to each other. She lays kisses on your face and lips, and gently moves your hand to rest on her hip, so your thumb traces the bone softly. It becomes a tight grip as Enjolras sighs and kisses you fiercely.

“Do you want to?” she murmurs, holding your face in her hands.

Your answering smile is as bright as the sun. “Yes. _God_ yes.”

With a teasing smirk, the blonde replies, “At least say the name of someone you believe in.”

“ _Enjolras_.”

Later, you lie in bed together in the same position as before. However, Enjolras’s hands are possessively on your lower back and she has fallen asleep. You watch her pale face, illuminated by the moon and the artificial light that leaks in through the crack in the curtains, and you eventually fall into the arms of Morpheus too.

 

-

Neuf

-

 

Everyone is paying too much attention to Marius and Cosette being the most adorable couple in forever to notice you and Enjolras cuddling on the coach. Regardless, you’re both girls, so obviously you’re only friends.

Yeah. Totally.

You just got laid, but it’s completely platonically.

You hold hands with Enjolras as you run up the Eiffel Tower. She apologises to almost everyone in extremely formal French in between giggles. The teachers have given up on trying to call you down. You are glad for that fact.

Enjolras pokes you in the ribs gently and extends her arms. You take that as an invitation to scoop her up in your arms bridal-style and continue running, though she has her arms around your neck.

When you reached the second floor, she kisses you with lips that taste of vanilla and pistachio, using every bit of what she had learnt from her adventures in Google and snogging. You lean against the wall in order to prevent her from being dropped as you return it as though you could somehow absorb some of her beauty through an exchange of saliva.

And then half of your class walks up the stairs and sees you with sweaty armpits and an Enjolras in your arms.

Welp.

You almost drop your goddess. She makes a high-pitched noise of terror when she spots the people watching the two of you.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity _fuck_.

“It’s too late to tell us that it’s not what it looks like,” Courfeyrac points out, because Courfeyrac is some sort of demigod (demigoddess?) and she’s as good at breaking tension as Bahorel is at breaking noses. So very much so.

“I suppose it is,” Enjolras says, clambering down from your arms. However, she remains holding your hand, which is the only thing stopping you from hurling yourself off the Eiffel Tower railings.

You await everyone’s judgement.

“Have you two fucked yet?” a boy calls.

Éponine, who is the Sassiest Sass Mistress of Sassiness, turns to him with a hand on her hip. Or at lest, you think. She’s behind quite a few people so you can’t see her all that well.

“Even if they haven’t fucked at all, they’ve still fucked more than you.”

There is a loud chorus of “Ooh!” which sounds like the music of angels to you. You turn to Enjolras, who let out her amusement in a drawn-out farting sound from her mouth and an amused grin. She is the light of the sun.

You suddenly understand your darling Pontmercy’s ridiculous texts sent at half four in the morning.

People start getting angry at you all for crowding up the stairs and everyone eventually disperses. You wrap your arm around Enjolras’s waist and she hooks your thumb into the belt loop of her rough denim booty shorts.

“You’re perfect, Grantaire, you know that?” she smiles, kissing you softly on the cheek.

You shake your head, your expression turning sardonic. “I’m really not. I drink on a daily basis, I experiment with several different drugs and substances and, as you saw last night, my thighs and hips are more scarred than Harry Potter’s forehead.”

“But that’s why,” Enjolras pouts. “All of those things are a part of you, but you still laugh with us and you still do all these wonderful things and you still love me.”

She cuts herself off and blushes deeply. The heat in your face makes you realise that the same is happening to you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

You nod. “I do.”

She gives you another of her shy grins. “Me too.”

 

-

Dix

-

 

"You know, you never told me your favourite poem," Enjolras says that night. She guides your hand to her hip again, and you resume your hip-stroking. The sun is barely setting, but you have an hour in which to take turns to wash before going out bowling or whatever it is you’re all doing tonight.

You smile. “Do you want to hear it?”

She nods. “Very much so.” Her voice is soft and slightly giggly, but she falls silent as you begin to speak.

_Don’t talk to me of love, I’ve had an earful_  
 _And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two._  
 _I’m one of your talking wounded._  
 _I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded._  
 _But I’m in Paris with you._

You roll out of your bed and look down at Enjolras. Your eyes are as fond as her own as you continue.

_Yes, I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled_  
 _And resentful at the mess I’ve been through._  
 _I admit I’m on the rebound_  
 _And I don’t care where are we bound._  
 _I’m in Paris with you._

You pause to roll onto your back, kicking your legs up dramatically before going as limp as a Magikarp.

_Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre_  
 _If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame_  
 _If we skip the Champ Elysées_  
 _And remain here in this sleazy_  
 _Old hotel room_  
 _Doing this and that_  
 _To what and whom_  
 _Learning who you are_  
 _Learning what I am._

With the last few lines, you had crawled up between Enjolras’s legs and murmured the final few words into her neck. But now you kneel up and almost run off the bed and to the window.

 _Don’t talk to me of love, let’s talk of Paris!_  
 _The little bit of Paris in our view!_  
You go on your tiptoes and attempt to trace a line across the ceiling.  
 _There’s that crack across the ceiling_  
 _And the hotel walls are peeling_  
 _And I’m in Paris with you._

For your grand finale, you return to the bed, on your side while Enjolras is on her back, though her head is turned to face you.

_Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris._  
 _I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do._  
 _I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth-_

you say, tracing your thumb across her closed eyelids and velvety soft lips before your hand flits down her stomach and onto her mound.

_-I’m in Paris with… all points south._

She giggles, her eyes snapping open as you squeeze gently before rolling her over, your hand back to her hip.

_Am I embarrassing you?_  
 _I’m in Paris with you._

 

-

Onze

-

 

One morning, halfway through the week, you all crowd around the little table and read various newspapers in French and make attempts at translating the articles. The radio plays a mix of French and English songs in the background, which results in a Courfeyrac, whose caffeine rush has come in far too quickly, screaming “Royals!” at every opportunity.

Enjolras shrinks away from the noise until Combeferre slaps Courfeyrac around the back of her head. You poke her shoulder gently and tilt your head to the side with a raised eyebrow. She nods with a small smile and clambers into your lap, where she messily attempts to feed you a pain au chocolat. It’s still warm, and the smell drifts to your nostrils and makes your mouth water. Despite this, you still only manage two thirds of it. Enjolras eats the rest and a slice of brioche, before pulling you to your feet and into the bedroom. Courfeyrac waggles her eyebrows and makes a humming noise, while you simply shut the door.

Light drifts in through the window, making Enjolras glow with ethereal beauty. The smell of the Parisian air that could be stifling to some instead filled you both with life.

“Sit on the bed,” you murmur to her, before pulling out your sketchbook from the cupboard above your bed.

Enjolras does so, watching you curiously. Today, she is wearing a pair of white cropped leggings and a crimson crop top. A pair of scuffed burgundy pumps lie on the floor next to your forest green off-brand sneakers.

You sketch the contours of the bed and the cupboards above; the way that the thin curtains flutter in the loose breeze; the way that Enjolras stretches her body every so often in a perfect arc. You sketch the iPod by your bed and the headphone splitters that Enjolras bought when she realised that she forgot her own MP3 player’s charger. You sketch the copy of _Song of Achilles_ that Enjolras borrowed off you and the French version of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ that sits underneath it. You sketch the expression Enjolras has on her face when she gazes at you from the corner of her eye.

Most of all, you make a valiant attempt to recreate the content feeling in your chest. You fail, but then again, when don’t you?

You take a final look at the scene in front of you and its recreation on paper. Enjolras has shifted, however, and fetched the camera from her side table. You keep your eyes fixed on her and not the camera when you smile softly.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, her voice a mix of joy and sadness.

You don’t realise that your eyes are blurring until a tear rolls down your cheek. “I’m really not.”

She slides down and kisses you firmly.

That’s the moment Éponine walks in and stares at you both for a few moments before turning around silently and leaving.

Enjolras doesn’t notice and kisses you again. She tastes of toothpaste now, but there’s a lingering flavour of green tea. Green tea is delicious, so you kiss her deeper.

“We’ve got the Louvre today,” she murmurs, breaking apart from you. “And I know you want to visit there.”

“ _Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre_?” you sigh against her lips, feigning grumpiness.

“Yes,” she grins mischievously. “I do.”

 

-

Douze

-

 

One evening, you sit on the porch of your caravan with Feuilly’s smuggled ukelele. The others sit on their own porch, so you are surrounded by four of your best friends and your (you still shriek internally) girlfriend, with a view of six more best friends.

You finish the last few chords of _Sugar We’re Goin Down_ to rapturous applause.

“Do a _Florence and the Machine_ song next!” trills Cosette.

You shrug and finger the first few chords of _Dog Days Are Over_. “This good enough?”

Cosette nods and begins to song along.

How the fuck did all of your friends end up with great singing voices?

Éponine begins harmonising at some point, which grants her a small smile from Cosette. She grins back, but you can see the sheer ecstasy in her eyes from the simple gesture.

She’s as gone as her as you are on Enjolras. _And as Enjolras is on you_ , your traitorous mind adds. You drown it out by joining in on the last few lines, but both you and Éponine leave the last line for Cosette.

Bahorel leads the applause before yelling, “ _American Pie_!”

“That’s eight fucking minutes long!” you call back.

“I’ll pay you ten euros!” she offers loudly.

“Twenty!”

“Done! Now go!”

You begin the song gently, trying out your vibrato on the lower notes before yelling “Éponine!” for the next verse.

She takes it up to the next chorus before beginning another Cosette harmony. Those were getting kind of old, now.

The next verse goes to Feuilly, who grins and passes the metaphorical microphone to Enjolras at the line mentioning the book of Marx, who then sends the song over to Joly and Bossuet, who couldn’t particularly carry a tune very well. They call for Courfeyrac to sing, as they are currently incapable of doing much but murmuring about the French girl who works at the Louvre and had given them her number. Courfeyrac carries the song proudly like a torch, with Combeferre being forced to join in and “Harmonise, for fuck’s sake!”

Eventually, the song returns to you and Enjolras, who takes great relish in referring to the _generation lost in space_ , though you take on the more cynical lines. It’s like her little idealistic heart cannot bear to even contemplate those words enough to allow them to slip off of her tongue. It’s adorable.

Éponine takes the lines including devils. If she didn’t have a pretentious streak you’d swear that she was trying to get Cosette in on some kinky shit.

Everyone joins in the last fast chorus before Cosette takes the melancholic end. Éponine takes over after, and gestures to Cosette on “lovers” and Jehan on “poets”.

You take it back after, before everyone starts joining in on the end. You hold the last note with Enjolras and Cosette, while everyone else bursts into cheers.

“Enjolras, choose a song before anyone suggests anything,” you hiss into her ear.

“ _I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker_ ,” she replies.

You genuinely think that she is expressing a genuine desire for a moment. Then you count her in and her voice fucking soars over the dregs of the cheering.

You join by tapping the ukelele in a simple rhythm, and Bahorel starts a steady beat by clapping.

You’re not really surprised when Jehan joins in for the harmonies. Jehan _is_ an Actual Punk Rocker With Flowers In Her Hair.

You keep at playing every song you can until the teachers angrily force you back inside your respective caravans.

Your fingers are blistered, and the next day, Enjolras buys a pack of plasters and sticks one on each of your fingertips before kissing them.

It’s not long before you have to leave France and return to your council house in England. You almost cry yourself to sleep upon the realisation. Enjolras notices, and holds you the whole way through. You hardly feel her own sobs against your back.

When you have run out of tears, Enjolras shifts you so that you’re lying on your other side and facing her.

“How would you feel about living here, one day?” she asks softly, tangling her fingers in your hair.

You stare at her, your mouth falling open in excitement.

“I’m interested in moving here and doing post-eighteen studies here,” she continues. “And, well, we’re both fluent, you love it here, I love it here and if you were here with me in the future, it would be even better.”

“I’m dirt poor,” you say. “I’ll never be able to afford it.”

“As soon as I’m eighteen, I get my inheritance.” She blushes suddenly and deeply. “It’s quite a lot.”

You beam. “I’ll work so many jobs. We’ll never get into debt if I do.”

Enjolras kisses you.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” you finish against her lips.

It is slow and loving and everything you never thought you deserved. You still don’t think so, but whatever Enjolras thinks, you will go along with.

 

-

 

You are a teenage girl in your last year of high school. You are also a lesbian. One who just happens to be in love with the most beautiful girl in the school, who just so happens to somehow return your feelings.

Your interests include your art, books, Greek mythology, pretending to be a decent human being, your friends and said girlfriend. She’s just as obsessive as you. It has not yet become a problem.

You’re failing a load of your classes, but you’re slowly getting better. You have a gorgeous goddess of a girlfriend to keep you on track, and your friends help you understand everything that you don’t.

You’re clinically depressed and have substance abuse problems. Your friends have promised to help you quit when you’re ready. You’re starting to believe in them as well. They _care_. It’s a new feeling. It’s nice. You’re content.

Your name is Grantaire.

This is your life.

 


End file.
